What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

nearby table.
    “My apologies.” Sebastian pushed away from the desk. “I shall rejoin the other guests at once.”
    “I think not.” With a sideways lunge, the Frenchman snatched one of the rapiers from the library wall and brought it around, the sharp blade singing through the air to bring Sebastian to an abrupt halt some ten feet shy of the door. “I think, monsieur,” said Pierrepont, the tip of his blade executing a neat pattern through the air, “that you and I must have a little talk. No?”
    “A talk would be interesting”—Sebastian leapt back, levering his weight on one outflung arm so that he vaulted over the desk to land lightly behind it. Pierrepont came after him in a rush, sword flashing, just as Sebastian seized a gleaming Spanish rapier from the wall near the casement window and brought it up to catch the Frenchman’s descending blade with a clanging ring of metal—“all other things being equal,” said Sebastian, smiling.
    Pierrepont leapt back, panting lightly, his pale eyes bright with astrange glow of exhilaration. “It is you, isn’t it? Devlin? I’ve heard you’re a good swordsman—for an Englishman.”
    Sebastian laughed.
    Pierrepont lunged, the long blades clanging together as Sebastian parried easily.
    “Why did you kill Rachel York?” Sebastian asked almost conversationally, sliding away from the Frenchman’s flashing sword only to close again, his booted feet moving softly across the Oriental carpet. “What did you think? That she intended to lodge information against you?”
    “Information? Against me?” Pierrepont’s lips drew back in a smile as their swords came together again. “And what sort of information would that be, monsieur?”
    “Information about your little spy ring.”
    Pierrepont parried Sebastian’s lunge. “Your experiences in the war obviously overset your imagination, monsieur le vicomte .”
    “Perhaps. But I have enough of my wits left to reason that if what I’ve heard is true—if Rachel was feeding you tidbits of information gleaned from her noble lovers—then her death might suggest that at least some of the details of your activities have become known.”
    “And who has encouraged you in this fantasy? Hmm?”
    “What’s the matter, monsieur? Scared?” said Sebastian, just as Pierrepont launched a swift and brutal attack.
    The Frenchman was at the end of his thrust when Sebastian circled his blade and danced sideways to slide in, his own blade flashing. The tip of his rapier sliced neatly through the musketeer’s silk to the flesh beneath.
    Pierrepont leapt back, a thin line of bright red blood seeping through the white front of his shirt, his lips tightening into a grim smile. “We must fence together some other time, monsieur. If you don’t hang, that is.” Turning his head, he raised his voice to shout, “Arnaud. Robert. Aidez-moi .” The men were obviously close. The library door burst open, spilling two of Pierrepont’s burly footmen into the room.
    Sebastian tightened his grip on his rapier, his breath coming in pants. With his path to the door blocked, the only possible way out the room was through one of the long casements overlooking the rear garden. Hehesitated for the briefest instant, then ran straight at the nearest window, one domino-wrapped arm flung up before his face to catch the worst of the impact as he crashed through in a shower of breaking glass and splintered wood.
    It was a drop of some six or eight feet to the snow below. Sebastian hit the ground hard, broken glass crunching beneath him as he scrambled to his feet and took off running across the snow-filled garden. From somewhere above came a woman’s scream. A man shouted; then Sebastian heard a yelp of pain as one of Pierrepont’s henchmen swung his leg over the jagged window glass and made as if to follow.
    “No. Let him go,” said Pierrepont, standing before the broken window, the palm of one hand pressed to his bleeding chest. “Let him go. . . .
    “For now.”

     
    The Earl of Hendon was in a big overstuffed armchair beside his library fire, a well-worn, leather-covered volume of Cicero lying open on his lap, when Sebastian walked in, the black loo-mask dangling from one finger.
    “Good heavens,” said the Earl after only the briefest of hesitations. “You look as if you’ve just fought the battle of the Spanish Main. And lost.”
    Sebastian swiped at a trickle of blood running down his cheek and laughed. Hendon was a master